


Conductor

by TeaCub90



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affection, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Holding Hands, John basically promoting self-care, Parenthood, Prompt: Lights, Self-Esteem Issues, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Supportive John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘You know that first Christmas – that only Christmas we had together?’ John presses then. ‘Before you… Anyway, I was…so happy. I was thinking back to the previous year when I’d been on my own and just…sleeping all day in my bedsit, no Harry, no Clara and just…watching random stuff on my laptop, trying to eat something and failing. And then – there I was and there you were, playing songs on your violin and there were all these people I would never have known otherwise if I didn’t know you. Friends, people we like. I’d even gone out and brought myself a jumper. I used to love Christmas jumpers, because they wound Harry up and then there I was, buying another one, just to annoy you. That’s how I realised everything had changed. Because of you, mate.’
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	Conductor

**Author's Note:**

> This one...got away from me. Not so much a ficlet as it is a nine-page fic, this is based on the Lights prompt; a labour of love that's partially the nostalgia of the long-standing Sherlock fan and partially catharsis.

* * *

He can’t move.

The night is grey, the room – the entire _flat_ – is completely dark and there’s traffic outside – Christmas shoppers, maxing out their credit and debit cards, family and friends going for drinks, people headed home – and he can’t move.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Only that he woke up, determined to do this day right, as Mary was often so fond of saying, to maybe tidy and look into buying a present for Rosie – only to find himself flagging, staring at inane advertisements on the television for inane, plastic toys that children will throw away after five minutes of playtime, and false pictures of forced family fun and jollity. Plastic and picturesque and utterly, utterly sickening. No wonder he’s always kept the valuable space of his brain reserved for better things. Intelligence, for one. Honesty, for another.

He’s been completely still here, on the bed, all afternoon – started off in the lounge, but too much space, too many empty chairs, too much _silence,_ had scratched at his brain in all the wrong ways and he had sloped off to his room, watched through the curtains as the grey afternoon – as grey as the clay that seemed to make up his head – slowly dimmed to night, hours and hours rocking past. He thinks that his stomach may have rumbled, but his body, his _brain,_ somehow felt too set in its own unique brand of concrete to actually _move,_ and anyway, it won’t kill him. He can go a few days without eating food. He’ll be fine.

He was fine before.

There’s a sudden sound that hooks his attention, pricks his ears – the distant rattle and thud of a door opening and closing, very close by. The door, in fact, that leads into 221b. A familiar tread; shuffling, confident, compact, down the hall, muffled.

A knock on the door; a click, and a slim line of light beneath; the hallway light, switched on. ‘Sherlock? Are you there?’

 _No,_ Sherlock wants to say. _I am not here – not all here. My brain is eating itself alive – I may well be dead by morning. Leave my body to science, my magnifier to Lestrade, my experiments to Molly and you and Rosie take all my valuables. You’ll survive without me._

The door opens a little – a slant of light floods in. A shadow, short and broad.

‘Sherlock?’ The door creaks back further, more light in the room.

_Play dead. Or at least pretend to be asleep. It’s worked before._

‘Sherlock, are you awake?’ A pause. ‘Sherlock, mate, don’t pretend to be asleep. You didn’t answer any of my texts.’

Texts? John texted? Sherlock glances around to check for his phone – left in the lounge, of course. Brain too foggy to do anything else; this really _is_ a Bad Day. Not even a Danger Afternoon/Night/Whatever. It’s just a Very Bad Day.

Then he realises his mistake in moving, which leaves him looking up into the tired face of one John Watson, who still has his coat on and is holding up a familiar black shape: Sherlock’s phone. Saying nothing, he simply places it on the bedside table.

‘Thankyou,’ Sherlock turns, mumbles the words into the pillows. ‘That’s…thoughtful.’ It is, really, isn’t it? Thoughtful. John can be thoughtful.

‘You’re welcome.’ There’s a significant pause; he can practically sense John standing in the doorway like the proverbial lemon, working his hands into fists, wetting his lips in a kind of nervousness. ‘You alright?’

Sherlock doesn’t answer; can’t. Waits for a small sigh, a soft, barely-heard-but-there swear-word; for the door to close, footsteps to retreat, through the lounge and back down the stairs, for the front door down below to slam, leaving behind the silence once more.

Instead, there’s a hum, and then a rustle, ostensibly of a coat. Then there’s a dip in the bed as a body – a warm, compact body – settles beside him and then a click and a burst of a sudden glow, reflecting off the far wall. Quizzical, murmuring, Sherlock raises his eyebrows and glances over his shoulder as John lies down beside him, the bedside light he’s just switched on radiating behind him, lending light to the room, throwing the shadows into doubt and adding some colour to dark walls and dark curtains. Moon-like, as though it were the middle of the night, and they were children at a sleepover.

‘You alright?’ John asks again, sounding rather as though he already knows the answer. Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of any of this, so he lies his head back down, still too heavy to handle. As though there’s a stone on his shoulders, compared to a magnificent brain.

He loves his brain when it’s magnificent; when it’s clever and challenged and solving a crime. He doesn’t like it when it’s like this. Mike Stamford said something, once upon a time, a long time ago when he found him on the lab floor one night, test-tubes shattered around him, not long after they first met; rather than growing angry and tossing him out, had scooped him up into his steady, soft arms, sat him down, given him a glass of milk – ‘Good for stress,’ he had declared, kindly, with all the expertise that came with medical training and fatherhood to two excitable daughters – and sat next to him with a jovial expression, not remotely concerned at finding the resident strange child collapsed on the premises at such an hour.

‘That’s the thing with intelligent people, I think,’ he had murmured, watching Sherlock blink blearily over the milk, something in his dark, twinkling eyes peculiarly kind – an alien prospect just then, because many people – save Mrs Hudson, and his brother on a very, very good day and Molly, back then merely known as the shy girl in the labcoat and jumpers – weren’t kind. Not to him. Not to Sherlock Holmes. ‘They know how to come up with different ways to make themselves unhappy. A smart brain’s never satisfied.’

He had smiled sadly, his face rather moonlike, soft Scottish accent thoughtful and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It had been a week before Christmas – a week before the Christmas that led to the January of the next year, when Sherlock met John for the first time.

‘I don’t know,’ he says now, in response to the query after his welfare because John deserves _that_ much; deserves _honesty._ They’re trying to talk more, to agree that there have been too many lies in their lifetime (nearly ten years, he realises, with another jolt. Ten years since they first met. Ten years of cases, of 221b, of laughter and tears and sweat and blood. Ten years of high points and low points. They’re trying to keep the high points higher, now) and they don’t want any more.

Even so, he could swear he hears John make an almost surprised-sounding noise behind him at the admission. Communication, see? It’s important.

Then, something else suddenly occurs and it’s enough to make him shift to look over his shoulder again, towards John, towards the light. ‘Where’s Rosie? Is she alright?’ It comes out like a croak; hasn’t said so many words in hours, but he can’t see his goddaughter anywhere nearby and he certainly doesn’t want her to see him like this.

‘Yeah, she’s fine,’ John soothes, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, splayed right across his chest, and resettling him, just like that. He’s taken his coat off; his chest is warm against Sherlock’s back. ‘She’s fine, Sherlock, she’s just downstairs with Mrs Hudson. They’re making a Yule Log,’ he adds with a slightly cryptic, raised eyebrow and Sherlock raises one right back. Well, then.

‘And we’ve got some Christmas lights,’ John adds then. ‘Some decorations; you haven’t decorated here, yet. Place is a bit of a tip. Thought we could help you.’

His voice is inviting, _hopeful_ even and Sherlock shuts his eyes; hates being like this. Hates being alone in the darkness and unable to know, even after almost ten years of John, how to tap on the windows that separate him from the rest of the world. Hates, suddenly, how _different_ he is – hates seeing everyone else just…go with it, to swing into the hateful cheer of Christmas with shopping and carols and just seeming to know how to get on with it, while he’s saddled with memories; of Germany, Switzerland, Serbia, two years dead, festive seasons on the run; of Magnussen and Appledore; of his sister’s silence across the sea.

He doesn’t know, he thinks, with a jolt, even though it’s most certainly not the first time he’s had such a thought; not even the tenth time, or the twentieth. But the fact remains: he doesn’t know how to be normal. How to be all… _festive,_ and _happy,_ and how to make other people happy.

He doesn’t know how to do it. He can’t do it. He thought he knew, once upon a time, and yet. And yet.

‘Shouldn’t waste your time,’ he mumbles into the pillow, his voice muffled. ‘Sure there’s lots of other people who would appreciate your… _festive spirit_ more, today.’ He doesn’t mean to sound so cold about it, but it’s too late to make a retraction.

‘Sod that, I can’t think of any,’ John’s voice, clear and strong as a bell, is firm, unwavering – takes him by surprise. ‘Harry doesn’t need me and doesn’t want my help, Molly and Lestrade are happy…’ There’s a kind of wistfulness in his voice, the way he says it, as he rests his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder, his forearm; starts rubbing a hand up and down, contemplative. Soothing. ‘I just want to give my daughter a good Christmas. I was hoping her godfather could help me out.’ It’s beseeching, the manner in which he’s peeking right over Sherlock’s shoulder, just looking at him. Waiting.

‘I’m more of a…’ Sherlock throws a hand around lamely. ‘Whatever the opposite is of Father Christmas.’

‘Jack Skellington?’ John suggests lightly. ‘The Grinch?’

Sherlock frowns; peeks up at him. John is leaning over him now, beaming almost impudently. ‘I… don’t understand.’

‘Jack Skellington,’ John gives a slow smile, looking inexplicably pleased with himself. ‘In appearance, anyway.’ He gives Sherlock a little shake, as though making some sort of declaration. ‘In temperament though, definitely the Grinch. It’s alright, I get that.’

‘John…’ Sherlock struggles in the literal face of such an inexplicably _kind_ expression.

‘It’s _alright,_ you know,’ John murmurs again; he seems to be watching him very closely. ‘It’s not a crime to want company for Christmas. To not enjoy it. I struggle a lot, sometimes and then I remember – at least I’ve _got_ someone. I’ve got you and Rosie and – and there are people who – they’re so _alone,_ Sherlock, and they’ve got nothing. And I _know_ what that’s like,’ he adds, meaningful and Sherlock blinks. Can see, reflected in John’s eyes, a memory of that Christmas as well – the one right before they first met. He had been hot on the case of dead bodies, showing up in places they had no reason to be and desperate for a lead, banging on the doors to the Met only to be turned away unless ‘something concrete’ was to show up.

That something (of course) turned out to be another body; that of Beth Davenport. On the heels of that (unexpectedly) was Doctor and Captain John Watson.

‘You know that first Christmas – that only Christmas we had together?’ John presses then. ‘Before you… Anyway, I was… _so_ happy. I was thinking back to the previous year when I’d been on my own and just…sleeping all day in my bedsit, no Harry, no Clara and just…watching random stuff on my laptop, trying to eat something and failing. And _then_ – there I was and there _you_ were, playing songs on your violin and there were all these people I would never have known otherwise if I didn’t know you. Friends, people we like. I’d even gone out and brought myself a jumper. I used to love Christmas jumpers, because they wound Harry up and then there I was, buying another one, just to annoy you. That’s how I realised everything had changed. Because of you, mate.’

Sherlock can’t speak. There are other associations with that particular Christmas – a phone, The Woman, a shock that felt like grief at the prospect of a wonderful mind murdered, someone who thought like him, who perhaps understood how it meant to feel like this, gone – but now all he can remember is the lights. John’s smile and declaration of ‘Marvellous!’ That hideous Christmas jumper, blue and red and white.

Perhaps it helps somehow, to know that Irene is safe, alive and happy somewhere. That John knows the truth of it, now. Sherlock was getting rather tired of keeping that particular secret to himself.

‘You know…’ John’s voice turns thoughtful, soft as one of the pillows. As though it’s wrapped up in a blanket, trying to stay contained. ‘Sometimes…part of me wishes that…we could go back. Do it all over again. I wouldn’t have let you jump off Barts’ roof, for a start.’ He gives Sherlock another wriggle, his arm still secure around his waist, his chest stilled pillared against his back. ‘But there’s no use thinking like that.’

‘You wouldn’t have Rosie,’ Sherlock manages; the concept of a world without that precious, remarkable little girl in it – his goddaughter – is unthinkable. He fancies – based on a sound like a smirk, a familiar kind of low chuckle, like the polite buzz of a homing bee – that he can sense John smiling behind him.

 _‘We_ wouldn’t have her.’ A pair of lips touch his shoulder softly, the shape of that mouth curved upwards. ‘I don’t know, maybe – and you’re right, I wouldn’t change that for anything. I wouldn’t change you being her godfather for anything.’

‘No,’ Sherlock manages because what would his life be without Rosie in it? How would he cope without the sheer, wonderful way of her, of her demands for cuddles and playtime that distract him so beautifully when he flies back from another visit to Sherrinford, the chill of the sea-air clinging to his clothes, the dim pierce of his sister’s eyes firmly entrenched across his brain like the most bitter of tortures? ‘No.’

John grunts, lays his cheek back down against his shoulder, shares the silence with him. He’s so… _present,_ so _there_ and his thumb rubs backwards and forwards against where it’s resting on his belly. It’s nice. It feels like a moment, snatched from the busy days of cases and care and just…being alive. Trying to _stay_ alive.

But now, it’s all starting to catch up and Sherlock is so, so tired. Of this, and of everything else. Of feeling so heavy that he dreads standing up on his feet, in case his magnificent, malicious brain decides to weigh his body down from the top, crushing him from head to toe.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs finally. ‘Forgive me.’

‘For what?’ John demands; another little wriggle. Sherlock should ask him to stop doing it, but. The strange thing is – it doesn’t feel _wrong._ Fanciful, maybe, but it just feels like a small, different kind of jolt; a spark to remind him that he’s not actually turned into clay. That he can actually _move,_ if he so wishes. ‘Feeling a bit poorly? You haven’t done anything wrong, Sherlock. If anything, you’re probably feeling like half the world’s feeling right now, if not more.’

‘It’s…thoughtless,’ Sherlock struggles to explain, and yet he’s always been thoughtless, hasn’t he? Ironically. He thinks and yet he’s thoughtless. Of _course_ he is. ‘Of _me._ You shouldn’t –’

‘What? Be here? This is _exactly_ where I need to be.’ John lifts his hand from around Sherlock’s waist but only to hold it to Sherlock’s forehead. His hand, deliciously cool – forgot his gloves, shoved his hands in his pockets, the one that wasn’t holding onto Rosie, anyway – is soothing. Sometimes, Sherlock feels his head gets too warm from overthinking alone, his mind in neutral and going nowhere, trapped on the launch-pad, _needs a case_ – sometimes, it just feels like a massive load of bricks, haphazardly piled together to make a human shape, expected to move and eat and sleep in the way that regular humans do.

‘I know what it’s like,’ John shrugs; lowers his hand to pat his shoulder. ‘To get stuck in your head. Of _course_ you get thoughtless, of _course_ you do, you can’t think of anything or anyone else except what’s going on in there.’ He taps Sherlock’s temple with a soft smile. ‘I did that a lot, after Mary died – lashed out. Did a lot of stupid stuff.’

His touch on Sherlock’s arm stills, his eyes caught, suddenly haunted and Sherlock does the only thing he can do; reaches up and takes his hand. It seems to work; John seems to snap out of _Something,_ smiles sheepishly, twines their fingers together. Doesn’t push him away, doesn’t reject him or the hand. Just… keeps it.

‘And you’re not…’ He swallows, tries again with another squeeze of the hand. ‘You’re not thoughtless, not really. Not when it matters. I mean, you were worried about Rosie just now, weren’t you? You’re not well, but you wanted to know how she was doing and if she was okay. That’s more than I’ve ever got from Harry.’ He huffs, saddened; holds on. ‘That’s more than _you’ve_ got from _me,_ sometimes. You’re doing alright, Sherlock.’

Sherlock blinks; stares. Realises he’s moved onto his back without quite acknowledging it; shifted his body from its slump on its side into something more comfortable, sturdy. John hums and squeezes his hand, almost apologetically, before letting go and just when Sherlock thinks that this is the moment when he’s about to leave, shifts over onto his own back, the pair of them lying side-by-side on the bed.

It’s _definitely_ nice. The light is tilting off the ceiling, like a half-moon on a cold night, and John is humming, almost self-consciously, to himself, hands crossed over his stomach. Sherlock mirrors him – John glances across and then smirks slightly, tips his head to touch his temple against his shoulder.

The room _is_ rather a mess – Sherlock can see that now, socks and clothes scattered haphazardly everywhere from days gone by, books piled up, the science collection in the corner disorganised in a blind attempt to find something to alleviate his boredom. The whole flat is a mess – and cold. The cold seeps into him like heavy cream, pouring through his pores, and into his lungs.

Or it _did,_ before John got here a few minutes ago.

‘We’ll sort it all out,’ John assures him and Sherlock realises he’s following his gaze, looking where he’s looking and something about that makes him feel oddly warm. ‘But first, I really think you need a bath.’

Hm. Sherlock sniffs himself surreptitiously – or not, considering the chuff of laughter next to him.

‘No, I mean – yeah, that too, but maybe a hot bath might just help a bit, you know? Got some bubbles?’ He’s biting his lip, looking openly and almost apologetically optimistic and, well. Sherlock Holmes has never been able to deny John Watson anything.

Besides, that… _does_ sound quite lovely, actually. When _was_ the last time he had a hot bubble bath?

‘Right,’ John pats his leg, struggles to his feet, limps a little across the floor and through the door that leads into the bathroom – something he always grumbled about in the past, Sherlock practically getting his own en-suite, the jammy dodger, but without any real malice – turns on the light. Sherlock watches the soft glow further illuminate the room, squeezes his hands together tightly. Wonders if he can really do this; mulls that over to the purring sound of clean, running water, steam slowly emerging while John shuffles off to find him some clean towels that haven’t got suspicious stains on them.

‘Pig’s blood is about the tamest thing you’ve got,’ he throws over his shoulder and it makes Sherlock smirk, just a little.

When he _does_ move – melts off the bed, wobbles on his feet, stretches upright with creaks and cracks and a massive yawn towards the ceiling, gets his blood circulation going again – and wanders into the bathroom, slowly starting to strip off, the steam of the hot water an allure against slightly stinking skin, it’s to find a couple of candles placed around the bath, the bubbles piled high like clouds.

‘I figure this is the only part of the house where you _can’t_ set fire to anything,’ John says behind him; turning, Sherlock finds him with a few towels and a bathrobe, which he hoists into his arms. ‘Although it is you, so. Anyway, enjoy. Scrub up, call me if you need anything. I’m going to make tea and check on Rosie.’

Sherlock can’t find the words to say, standing there, shirt half-buttoned, towels heavy and clean in his arms. ‘I’d quite like tea,’ is what he decides upon declaring, because he would, actually; his brain feels like it has a carnivorous gap in the middle that only tea could fill.

‘Yep,’ John calls back over his shoulder, tilting the door closed to afford him some privacy. ‘I know.’

And he _does,_ that’s the thing – brings a full, steaming mug of tea back a few moments later once the bathtub is full of six-foot-one detective, legs curled up among the bubbles, warm water sluicing over his skin, his face, his hair, emerging from the water after submerging himself completely, laying beneath the surface and listening to the water hum, the porcelain knock as he tapped his fingers against it.

‘Atta boy,’ he praises, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watches Sherlock merrily soak himself. ‘Hm. Christmas otter.’

‘Rosie alright?’ Sherlock checks again, ignoring the gentle jibe as the tea is placed down on the hamper by the sink. ‘Thankyou,’ he remembers and is rewarded with another smile.

‘She’s fine, they haven’t blown up the kitchen, _yet,’_ John clears his throat, lingers by the door, hand hovering over the switch. ‘Lights on, or off?’

Sherlock hums, looks at the candles. The light above his head is useful, but in the stark white of their bathroom, just a little blinding. ‘Off, please.’ John obeys, and the candles remain, flickering like tiny lighthouses in the darkness, oddly lovely to watch.

‘I used to do that,’ John comments, watching Sherlock watch the flame flicker. ‘When I first came back from Afghanistan. Splurged out on a candle and matches and just…watched the wax burn. Something to focus on, I suppose. Felt soothing.’ A pause. ‘Then I set the fire alarm off.’ He clears his throat as Sherlock chuffs – there’s nothing funny about that particular time of John’s life, but it’s just like his friend to at least attempt to look on the bright side – and he sees himself out, quietly. ‘Call me if you need me.’

Sherlock doesn’t, not just then, but it’s a kind offer. Lays in the warm water in the half-light, the candles illuminating, their light climbing the walls like an assurance – just like the sound of John in the other room, shuffling and vacuuming, the hum a soft, securing harmony through the wall.

When he emerges some indistinguishable amount of time later, in his bathrobe and with his hair slicked back, it’s to find the lounge aglow with the promise of good work; Mrs Hudson, sitting on a stool and laughing about something with John, who’s currently struggling to hold up a Christmas tree that he distinctly doesn’t remember ordering while Rosie plays attentively with a bauble somebody’s given her from the pile of boxes scattered around their feet, all kept down in the basement flat for…well, a rather long time now. Possibly since that one Christmas they shared, the decorations brand-new then, brought on a trip to Tesco that John bullied Sherlock out of the door for, the pair of them laughing among the Shloers and colas of the drinks aisle as they bickered over snacks.

John’s grunts are muffled by the pines of the tree; there’s tinsel scattered over the mantlepiece and over the floor, and somebody’s put a new Father Christmas hat on the skull. Sherlock feels his mouth twitch; Rosie spots him first, face immediately lighting up before she drops the bauble and hurries across to him.

‘Sha-Sha!’ she declares, reaching out to tug insistently at his hand. ‘Sha-Sha, look! We got a tree for _yooooooooouuu,_ Sha-Sha!’

‘So I see, Watson.’ Sherlock scoops her up, lets her enjoy the texture of the fluffy bathrobe – ‘Ahhh,’ she declares pleasantly, resting her head against it, small hands patting his shoulders as he wanders across to take a closer look. John, for his part, looks suitably sheepish.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he mutters, emerging from the tree, gesturing to the now one-quarter-festive lounge of 221B; Mrs Hudson is tellingly silent, watching mindfully. ‘Just…’

‘It’s fine, John,’ Sherlock assures; at Rosie’s bidding, he carries her to the mantlepiece so she can show him the skull, dressed up in all its Christmas finery. ‘Did _you_ do that, Watson?’

 _‘Yyyyyes!’_ she declares deafeningly, bouncing in his arms, before turning her attention to the Lucky Cat – one ornament of 221b that was unearthed after the explosion to reveal itself miraculously unharmed – and prodding at its paw.

Sherlock grins and kisses her cheek; she squeals with delight, swatting at him and they both turn to watch her father watching them, looking suddenly a little out of sorts, as though worried he’s pushed too far; gone where he’s not wanted. Sherlock understands that feeling – he’s felt it often enough, and he knows, down to his bones – in the way that John begs him not to linger too long in bars, to text him when he can when a case and childcare separates them and becomes completely furious when a suspect attempts to rough up Sherlock; not John, _just_ Sherlock – that John is still wary; still working on this whole ‘forgiveness of self’ business.

Still, incomparably and ever so wonderfully, _John._

‘It’s lovely,’ Sherlock murmurs, letting his eyes wander; the place is already cleaner, lighter somehow. The curtains are open, the streetlights pouring in. ‘Or it will be. Do we have any Christmas lights?’

‘We do,’ John seems to visibly sag with relief, rummaging through the boxes, as Sherlock shifts and props Rosie atop his shoulders, jogging her up and down, holding onto her hands as she attempts to clap them, or whack his head.

‘Did I tell you that I used to call your father a conductor of light, Rosie?’ he asks her, walking her around the room as Mrs Hudson coos to watch them and John grunts to himself, blatantly doing his best _not_ to swear as he manages to unearth a whole string of lights, the bulbs scraping against the cardboard. ‘It all started during a case in Dartmoor…’

‘With the big dog!’ Rosie crows, patting his hands and he gives her an extra-big bounce as a reward, making her squeal once again. If he lifted her high enough, perhaps she could touch the ceiling.

‘A _very_ big dog, yes. There was a light, and letters, and a strange word of _UMQRA…’_

 _‘Ooooommmm-kwa!’_ Rosie giggles; loves the word, the nonsense word that’s come to mean something and how it sounds. ‘Ooom-kwa, _ooom_ -kwa, _oooooooooooom_ -KWA!’

Behind him, the lights twitch promisingly in John’s hand and a path of scattered colours – blue and red and orange – come to life around their feet.

*

They decorate the tree, and help Mrs Hudson make Yule Log and calm Rosie down when tiredness creeps up on her and she has the inevitable tantrum of the exhausted, over-excited toddler who wanders around the bottom of the tree whisking baubles off while they’re putting them on. Sherlock rocks her, sings to her as John turns all the lights off, save the ones on the tree and they watch Rosie watch the lights glow in a soft state, let her get drowsy before carrying her to bed – Sherlock’s bed is closest and he waves off John’s apologies with a hand. He doesn’t mind.

They sit cross-legged either side of the coffee-table and eat spaghetti bolognaise and John even manages to persuade him to put on the _Doctor Who_ Christmas special from 2010; Sherlock actually remembers this one, strangely enough. They curl up together under a blanket, watch a strange alien in a bowtie save a lost man, the pair of them settled in the soothing, inky dark of the lounge, peppered by the little bulbs curved carefully around the tree on a string. Sherlock watches them; watches the lights flicker, painting both the golden spheres of the baubles, and the very edges of John’s remarkable, lovely face.

*


End file.
